Horse Shoes
by CrookedBarbarian
Summary: "Not just seen. I wanted to be significant." Golden kingdoms are built on blood and sacrifice. Claire's companion piece to Hand Grenades.
1. Close Only Counts

"Happiness isn't my concern. Not now, not ever."

The woman who would become President.

* * *

She learned to make the sun rise at six. Already, she was sick of cowering in the darkness, sick of the fear and helplessness that all but paralyzed her. She would never shrink away again. When she opened her eyes in her bed, the bright golden orb was there to greet her. It had worked, and she learned she could do anything.

She was thirteen when she saw clothes could be armor. Statements didn't always have to be said or written. Silence could be a powerful weapon. Let people make their assumptions. Allowing others to think they knew her would only give her more power. She controlled what they saw - what they thought knew.

At fourteen, she stole one of her father's cigarettes for the first time. Her mother had her life planned out to the finest detail, but she'd be damned if she let anyone arrange her existence to suit their whims. She was nobody's toy and no one's pawn. The cigarette burnt her lungs, but the fire was its own comfort.

At fifteen, she realized that her elegant cheekbones and lithe, powerful figure could be wielded as weapons. People hung on her every word, sought her out like an addiction, did whatever she asked for a mere smile and sweep of her eyelashes. She was growing into her features, childhood loveliness giving way to magnificent beauty, and she intended to use it to her advantage.

It was also the first time she was betrayed by a lover, and by her own innocence. She had been young and naïve, and she had trusted him. Never would she trust blindly again.

Sixteen was the first time she realized beauty could be a curse. Beautiful girls became models and then trophy wives to the prom kings after they reached the ungodly age of twenty-five. They didn't run companies, or become politicians, or god forbid, lead a country.

The first time a boy proposed, she was eighteen. Her mother was outraged at her refusal, but she'd taken so many tongue lashings, she no longer cared. The daughter of Dallas royalty wasn't going to stay in Highland Park and marry the prom king; she was going to rule her own kingdom.

At nineteen, her world shattered, and she broke, dissolving into a thousand razor sharp fragments after what he did to her. In the midst of that agony, she began to discover exactly how strong and powerful she could become. She would be damned if she let that bastard - and that gasping, sobbing, trembling little girl - destroy her.

At twenty-one, she pulled a man down on top of her for the first time since Dalton McGinnis. Francis's weight didn't crush or trap her. His body pinned her down, but instead of terrifying her, she felt safer than she had in years. She could trust him entirely, and that meant everything.

At twenty-two, she took his hand and they became partners, allies, co-conspirators. Together, they would build an empire, their own shining, magnificent realm. As yet there were no formal declarations, but they needed none; their blood oath was wrought in silence. Ambition would take them to the highest reaches of power, and in their fusion, they would become something nigh invincible.

* * *

Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades...


	2. Six

She bolted awake, her heart pounding against her sternum, eyes darting around in search of the monsters in the darkness. When she didn't see any, she yanked the blankets over her head and pinned them down so they couldn't get in, to make herself invisible. Her legs curled up towards her chest when she thought she felt cold on her toes. They weren't going to get her. Daddy said they couldn't get her… She peaked out again, just barely, and caught the pool of silver moonlight on the carpet from the window.

Biting her lip, she debated the merits of leaving the safety of her makeshift bunker, but most of her was sick to death of waking up like this every night, trying to not make a single noise as she waited to fall back asleep. Nighttime was horrible. She deplored the dark and what could be hiding in it. But she was determined she wouldn't be afraid forever. Stealing herself, Claire wrapped the blanket around herself and carefully perched herself in the window seat. Her little hands shook as she yanked the curtains open and her knees were back under her chin as soon as she'd made herself comfortable, but she wasn't going to live like this anymore. Stars winked at her, all but the strongest obscured by the city's lights, and she focused on those pinpoints, and the soft golden splashes from the streetlights on the sidewalk. A cat sauntered past, and she thought of it all alone in the darkness, like her.

Determinedly, she stared at the blue-black sky, willing the sun to come back, ordering it. It couldn't just leave her like this, all alone and afraid. Hours passed and her eyelids grew sticky when she blinked, her eyes burning with exhaustion. A handful of times, she snapped her head up when gravity pulled it down towards her chest, but eventually her grip on the blanket loosened and her legs stretched out. Still, she glared at the sky, giving the delinquent sun that frightening glare her mother always used when she was unhappy with her. She focused all her energy on dragging the bright orb back above the horizon and into the sky. The sun _had_ to come back up; it just _had_ to… Vaguely, she registered a shock of cold against her temple as her head lulled against the window, and in her dream, she saw the brilliant golden light from behind her eyelids…

He smiled softly at the sight of his little girl curled up in the window seat with her blanket. She hated the dark, but she'd been too stubborn to come into their room since she was four. Apparently, even his little six-year-old had her pride. As he scooped her up in his arms and held her warm little body against his chest, he thought of all those terrifying child's nightmares, and wondered how long it would be until she outgrew them, until the world no longer seemed so scary. He kissed her on her cheek, then her button nose, and she pulled the blankets up past her chin in her sleep.

"Goodnight, baby girl," he whispered, and a smile turned his daughter's mouth.

When she opened her eyes again, she was tucked back in her deliciously soft, warm bed… And the sun was pouring through her window, warming her face to say hello. Smiling to herself, Claire giggled in delight. It had worked! The sun had come back up just for her. Until the nightmares waned and she didn't have to hide from night monsters anymore, she would climb into the window seat every night, willing with all her might for the sun to come back, and every morning, she opened her eyes to find it had obeyed her.

Claire had just learned she could do anything, even control the stars.


	3. Thirteen

This night was going to kill her. All these screamed lectures were giving Claire a headache, and she had a line of red crescents on her arm where her mother's manicure had broken the skin. The woman was incensed, and her daughter was suffering for it. Designer dresses and shoes obscured most of the bed, and she'd narrowly missed half a dozen hurling hangers. At least none of them had racked out a window. Her graphite eyes narrowed menacingly at the gown her mother was holding up now.

"I can't _breathe_ in that, just like the last five. And I'm not wearing those shoes, either; they're torture devices."

"I will not hear any more of your wining, Claire," she snapped, looking like she was ready to strike her. "It's critical that Mr. Nordin is impressed tonight and that means we all have to put our best foot forward. His company is willing to put up half a million for the campaign. I will _not_ let him see an insolent little girl who cannot conduct herself properly. You're thirteen years old. I shouldn't have to tell you this."

Digging her own nails into her palms, Claire turned away towards the window, unwilling to show how much her dismissiveness hurt. One minute she was a practically full-grown adult who was more than capable of handling adult matters, and the next she was an impertinent toddler who comprehended nothing. Evidently she was old enough for make-up - but not her mother's respect.

"You liked all of these when we bought them," Claire gestured towards her bed and the piles of rejected dresses and stilettos. "Daddy isn't going fail after all this because I picked the wrong dress."

"You don't understand, Claire, how important this is. You're not old enough. The entire election and possibly your father's business could ride on the people coming. The world's most important decisions are usually dictated by a small number of the most powerful people in the right room together."

By the time it was over, she'd gone through fifteen different dresses and eighteen pairs of shoes - she'd counted every one of them, in between her mother's fits of screeching, red-faced hysteria over her abysmal choices. Every last detail about this night had to be _flawless_. Eventually, she slipped into a brand new gown of red lace with long lace sleeve and a keyhole back that went the length of her spine. Closing her eyes, Claire drew a deep breath in the blissful silence before she examined her reflection again. Her stomach fluttered even more the second time and she turned to peer at all different angels. It made her look like an elegant goddess, and nigh indestructible. A small smirk curved her lips. It was perfect. _She_ was perfect. Her mother couldn't berate her for this.

A knock on the door made him look up from the book he was perusing.

Her dad beamed.

"Don't you look grown-up, sweetheart."

Her cheeks flushed slightly and she smiled; her stomach fluttered with incredible pride at the compliment. Most parents would balk at seeing their thirteen-year-old with clothes and a full face of make-up that made her look ten years older, but not hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she perched herself next to him on the arm of the chair, her chin resting easily against his shoulder.

"I'm so proud of you, Claire."

"Mother's been awful," she whispered conspiratorially. He winced in sympathy.

"I could hear her. But don't worry about her, Claire. You're going to do great tonight-"

"Claire! Stand up straight before you wrinkle that dress. You'll look like you've been rolling around in the stables." Before Claire had time to do more than blink, Elizabeth turned for the door. "And for god's sake, will you smile? You look like you've eaten something sour."

The shoes crushed her toes and it took all of forty-five minutes for the balls of her feet to throb and for it to feel like she was standing on knives. But they were beautiful and that was all that mattered. That _she_ was beautiful. Tonight was going to kill her, but she'd find a way to endure it, like everything else: With a smile.

A lanky, handsome man about her dad's age approached her and mock bowed over her hand with a devilish grin and a confident flourish.

"Claire, it's so good to finally meet you. May I say, you look lovely tonight." She gave a dazzling sweet smile in return.

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Nordin."

The man flirted shamelessly as they danced, and his six feet of height left her wondering if he really was trying to look down her dress. She was growing into a woman's figure, but surely her father's business friend wouldn't think that way about a teenager? Nevertheless, in that moment, it didn't bother her nearly as much as it should have. In this dress, she felt every inch her father's daughter: like a young queen. No one could touch her, not the questionable drunk men leering behind their glasses, or anyone firing very complexly adult, very serious political questions at her and expecting fittingly expert answers in return. She may be all of thirteen, but tonight she looked more than twenty, and Claire intended to act like it. When she parted company with Nordin, she found herself sipping sparkling cider in another circle of political analysts and consultants, eloquently answering their questions and countering with her own, though she lacked their benefit of alcohol to ease her nerves. Her stomach twisted with excitement as they spoke; this was where she belonged, what she loved. From their treatment, she realized they saw not a teenager wading far out of her depths, but a young woman preparing to one day take her father's place.

Towards two in the morning, when her gorgeous armor was back on its hanger and she'd pried off those perfect but torturous shoes, Claire stared absently at the ceiling, dreaming. The right clothes could make her feel like she could do anything, and she started planning a wardrobe for the day when politics was more than party conversation and became her job.

* * *

Frank smiled at his wife in the mirror as he did up her buttons with deft, straying fingers. He pressed kisses to her shoulders that made her shiver despite herself, occasionally letting his mouth stray to her neck.

"Francis." Her quirking smile in the reflection turned the admonishment into approval.

"This is one of my favorites."

The dress was black, long-sleeved with a figure-hugging bodice that went to an A-line skirt. It felt like armor, and it made her feel almost invincible. Analyzing her reflection, she remembered how she was even more grateful on days like this that she'd cut her hair. There was nothing to hide behind, and that absence sharpened her features and lent her a stronger look of power. These negotiations could go well past dinner, and she would need every weapon she could muster if they were going to get anywhere at all.

* * *

Every man down the table glanced up when she opened the door. First, their gazes took in her dress and figure, then wandered up to her face, highlighted by perfectly executed make-up. Winged eyeliner she'd chosen for the occasion enhanced her graphite stare that assessed each of them in turn, businessmen on the right, politicians on the left. A few of their mouths opened, some of their spines straightened, but in a matter of moments, all of them understood she had come to win.

Assuming her seat next to Francis at the head of the table, she folded her hands on top of the leather-bound portfolio. Claire flashed her best dazzling smile.

"Gentlemen, let's talk about why your residents can set their water on fire."

It went downhill as fast as she'd thought it would, and they were lucky it hadn't degenerated into blows.

A lot of the families in these districts had depended on the mines for their livelihoods for generations, and now those same companies had abandoned them.

"Mrs. Underwood, again, there is no reliable evidence that the operations of my company, or anyone else's at this table, has contaminated the water supplies. Furthermore, _again_ , neither have we found any conclusive evidence that the local water is in any way unsafe for use or consumption."

They'd gone around in circles like this for hours already.

Her head ached. Her head ached, and she wanted to kill something.

"Coal's the only thing keeping our states running, Frank. We eliminate coal, towns die, entire counties die."

"Cut the bullshit, Pitman," Frank shot back. "What do the people in your district have _with_ coal right now? Their economies are some of the worst the country, and that hasn't changed without it. And they get treated like shit. You're all fucking over your own people because you're too lazy to actually _do_ anything. Claire and I can help you make millions of lives better. We've done most of the groundwork already. We're practically offering it to you on a platter, and you're _still_ too goddamned lazy to take it. You're _poisoning_ the people who voted for you because you can't be bothered to get off your ass and give a fuck. Look at this." Claire poured water from a bottle into a metal cup, then sparked her lighter. Flames jumped to life. "Would you let your kids drink that shit, Howard? Would you let them touch it?" One of the company presidents twitched in his seat.

"Domestic so-called _humanitarian_ projects would cripple these people's pride. They're a self-sufficient bunch and they won't take kindly to charity. Especially from outsiders."

"But this isn't charity." She leaned forward just fractions of an inch. "Wouldn't it better serve these hard-working miners' pride and self-worth to be able to say that they're valued and have leaders who advocate for their health and well-being? Because let's be honest, going back and forth on weather or not the water supply is actually drinkable when it has so many chemicals in it it's liable to explode is bad for you." She turned cutting gray eyes on the business side of the table. "I know you think you're saving money by pretending there isn't a problem and pretending you didn't cause it, but in a matter of years, American coal will be completely unviable. It's been on its last legs for a long time now. Either your companies will be dead with it, or you can be the ones who transformed these good people's lives and helped them to gain prosperity and living-wage jobs. Starting with their water." Her gaze swept over both the businessmen and the politicians now rigid in their seats. "CWI can partner with your companies and your states to help with that. We have decades of experience both internationally and domestically and great recourses we can tap into, while Francis helps you boys craft legislation in Congress to improve your citizens' current circumstances and their prospects. The President already has a job transition and retraining program started with solid success rates and we could work together to make it even better. The world is always changing; why not harness that to your advantage?" Her husband spread his hands towards his fellow representatives in an almost supplicant gesture, a smirk on his lips and an extra couple layers on his Southern-blue-collar accent.

"I know what it's like to break your back for a living trying to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head. My daddy was a peach farmer, and I'm damn proud of where I came from. But I also know that no matter how hard you work, not a day goes by that you don't wish you could earn a little better wages for it, that you could have just _one shot_ at the chances that other people get handed to them. What Claire and I are offering isn't a handout, and it isn't an insult. We want to help you help these hard-working, honest people better themselves. Trapping them in a 1949 economy and denying them the chance to see anything better is only going to hurt them and send you lower in the stock market and farther behind." Claire offered the men only a hint of a smile.

"You can cling to the past, or you can look to the future. Most of you came from the same kinds of arduous, dead-end circumstances they did. These people deserve to hold their heads high again, don't you think?"

Rapt, the men listened, they leaned towards her, drawn, and Claire knew she'd won.


	4. Fourteen

"He hated how you used to go down to the stables with your cigarettes."

-(4.2, Chapter 41)

* * *

"We're going to have lunch with Peter Langdon and his mother this Saturday. I think you'll like him. He's very charming." Her mother's voice held that imperious tone that made her want to scream or run; she never knew which.

A stone sank into the pit of her stomach. It wasn't Peter; he was a perfectly nice boy, and they were even casual friends. It was that she was old enough to see what her mother was doing: She was trying to pair them off, arrange her daughter's future _exactly_ how _she_ wanted it. Claire wouldn't have a say in the matter, not really. Elizabeth Hale spoke and those around her obeyed, husband and offspring especially, and mutinied at their own peril.

When she saw Peter at the table, his wide green eyes and too-tidy blonde hair gave him an air of too much innocence for a teenager with that much money. His large eyes flickered to her, then away nervously, like he was embarrassed that his mother was doing this. At least he understood how she felt.

"Claire, why don't you sit across from Peter? You two should talk more often."

"They look lovely together," Mrs. Langdon beamed. "And it's good they're already friends. That will make this much easier."

When Claire's gaze met Peter's across the table, she mouthed, 'I'm sorry.' He shrugged inconspicuously, thankful that she was just as embarrassed as he was. Neither of them wanted to be here, but they both knew their presence was a mere formality anyway. They were spectators in their own lives.

"Now, Gina, I know your husband is technically an independent, but he does have a number of business interests we could help with." Elizabeth smiled slyly. "If, of course, he would be willing to return the favor."

Hours passed with chatter and the clinking of silverware and glasses. Boredom hammering at their skulls, she and Peter sat still and straight as their mothers hashed out the details of a potential marriage settlement. Their children were only fourteen, but it was never too early to think of building alliances. Their mothers were matching up the family assets, comparing the other's political and business advantages to other families', and their own considerable resources. Sizing up the only question that really mattered: Were those potential assets enough to trade their children for? As the lunch dragged longer and longer, the unease in her stomach grew to a gnawing trepidation, twisting her insides. Claire felt everything pressing in on her, the future just a few short years away and the interminable stretch after that crushing her to dust. She couldn't breathe.

"Will you excuse me for a minute?"

As she shot to her feet and headed for the door, she ignored the women's glares at her back. Without thinking, she looked up to find herself in her daddy's study. She paced the length of the room, attempted to slow the thud of her heart in her chest and untie the painful knot in her stomach. Even at fourteen, she wasn't allowed to have a future. She had no right to hope for anything, no right to dream. Cradle to grave, her entire existence was already planned out for her, to her parents' advantage. She would be a prisoner in a beautiful palace, and the realization was making her physically sick as it sank deeper and deeper into her bones.

Her father's study had long been her favorite refuge, her daddy her favorite person. Halting, Claire cast her eyes over the room, hoping those familiar sights would calm her. Sunlight streamed in from the grand windows, illuminating the volumes on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and made it look almost magical. When her eyes alighted on an ornate box on the great dark cherry wood desk, she froze for a moment. Approaching almost warily, she ran her fingertips around the edge of the box, a thrill skipping through her.

Claire's hands trembled as she pried the box open and lifted a cigarette from the neatly arranged stack inside. Half-numb fingers fumbled with the lighter, but at last it caught. The first few tries didn't go so well, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her coughing as the smoke burned her lungs. It made her head spin and she wondered if this was such a good idea after all. But then her hands started tingling, and the weight on her chest lifted a little, and the knot in her stomach started to loosen. Leaning against the front edge of the desk, she admired the way the smoke snaked through the air, watched the shapes swirl.

It didn't fix everything, but when she forced herself to go back to the table, her hands didn't shake so much. Life felt less fated, like she might have a say in what happened to her instead of being forcibly subjected to Elizabeth Hale's whims. A smile played at her mouth; so this was how her father coped with being married to a she-demon.

* * *

"Hi, Red. Yes, I brought treats."

Claire stroked her horse's velvet nose and pressed a kiss just above his muzzle. He nudged her shoulder and made to lip her jacket. She petted him and cooed to him while he munched. Red was her baby, and her best confidant. There was something immensely comforting in having someone who was forever delighted to see you.

"What do you say to bareback today? We can go for a good gallop, and I'll even let you jump if you behave." His ears perked up and a billow of warm air hit her hand as he snorted. "After I finish this," she held up the cigarette and grinned at his disinterest. "I started a year ago, kind of by accident. Daddy doesn't know I smoke. And I can hear Mother screeching about wrinkles and pre-mature aging, and egregiously unladylike behavior… 'Most unbecoming of you, Claire,'" she mimicked.

She rolled her eyes and Red thrust his head forward for another carrot. He stared at her with giant brown eyes while munching happily. Claire slid her fingers through his mane and scratched his neck. The one friend who would never judge her, because he couldn't talk back. Red was the best therapist a girl could have, and he'd never tell anyone either. Feeling his powerful muscles beneath her made it easy to imagine she was a warrior riding into battle, or escaping across the endless plains to great adventure. Not trapped in a glass prison.

"I swear if I don't get away from her soon, my head is going to explode. She screamed at me for wearing the wrong shoes the other day, and the day before that, it was the wrong earrings, not enough make-up, slouching, or not being _charming_ enough, I don't fucking _know_ what. Between you and me, I think she's going insane. If she didn't just come that way."

Her horse snuffed again and shook his head. Red whinnied softly like he was telling her to hurry up.

"Yeah, it doesn't smell the best, I know. But it keeps me from losing it. I think it's the only way Daddy can stand her. Do you know she's already planning what _college_ I'm going to? I just got into high school. What the hell? She's probably up there planning my entire future down to the man I marry and the number and names of my kids. Don't look at me like that. You know it's true. She is; she thinks she owns me. I'm going to Harvard, but not because she wants me to. I want to do so much more than be some millionaire's fucking trophy wife. I'm going to _build_ a kingdom, not be decoration for someone else's."

Claire crushed the smoldering stub under her boot and started tacking up. When she pressed the bit against his lips, Red opened his mouth obediently. He knew it would be worth it. She hugged his neck tight, burying her head against his soft hair for a moment.

"Come on, boy. You and me, forever."

* * *

Claire took the cigarette from him, her eyes fixed out the half-open window.

"What are you thinking about?" Frank ventured in a curious drawl. It took her a moment.

"That I've been smoking for way too long," she replied mildly, and held out her hand.

"Did I ever tell you," he took another drag and handed it back, "I started smoking at thirteen? One of the neighbor boys gave me my first cigarette. Said it was the perfect excuse to slip out of the house when your parents were fighting."

"I started smoking the day I realized Mother was arranging a marriage for me." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice even though she was smiling. His eyebrows lifted quizzically; she'd never told him this. His wife had been intentionally silent about most of her childhood, even after so many years together.

"To who?"

"One of her friend's kids. His name was Peter Langdon. He was nice, as far as teenage boys go. And almost as rich as us. I felt this noose tightening around my neck, and the next thing I knew, I was in Daddy's study stealing a cigarette. I just broke. I knew if I let her do this, I was going to be her puppet for the rest of my life, with no right to make any decision for myself." After she passed the cigarette back, Frank leaned forward to slide the backs of his fingers comfortingly down her cheek. Then he kissed her, waiting until she decided to pull back. "It was the first time I ever really defied her. Even though I tried to hide it from her, it helped give me the strength to become my own person."

"Since we're sitting here, I'm assuming this insipid, _nice_ boy wasn't worth marrying? Did your mother's head explode when you told Peter Langdon to go fuck himself?" Her spine stiffened. She took another drag and sent white smoke billowing out into the night air.

"It doesn't matter, Francis. It was a long time ago."

"I couldn't imagine you back in Dallas with two or three kids running around, trying to be some hapless bastard's trophy housewife." Claire considered for several moments, her gaze drifting out the window.

"I couldn't either. I think that's what helped set me free. Knowing if I had to live that kind of life, I'd die."

"And do you feel free now, here with me?" The smile she graced him with was radiant and genuine.

"I do. More than you'd ever imagine." Then, "You saw me. Everyone else has their ideas about who I am, or what I should be. They see what they want. You see me for who I am."

Contemplatively, Frank ran his thumb over her wedding ring. When he'd slipped the band of platinum and endless diamonds on her finger, Claire had smiled like he had her heart. Frank reached for the black lacquered box, then stopped himself. They'd agreed to share one a day, and they'd mostly stuck to that since he'd first run for Congress.

"You can have another if you want."

"We really should quit," he smirked.


	5. Fifteen

"It's time she learned about the world. Pretty girls have a responsibility to their beauty."

-(6.2, Chapter 67)

* * *

Leaning against the brick wall, Claire and Justin smoked in silence, her nerves too raw for their usual conversation. Her boyfriend looked just as pensive as she felt, enough to shield her for now. The prospect of what might have happened, and then of having to tell him, had been eating her raw for a week. She never remembered to take the pill consistently, but he'd said it was enough. And she'd trusted him. But it hadn't been, and now she was terrified. When he finally looked at her, his blue-green eyes were slightly unfocused and hazy, a lingering high from his boarder-line panic attack last night over his future - or the one he wouldn't get.

"Claire… Can we talk at lunch? I have something I need to ask you."

"Sure. I have something I need to talk to you about too." Touching his shoulder, she kissed him long enough to steal his breath. "It'll be ok, Justin. I'll meet you by your locker."

Despite her anxiety, or maybe because of it, her stomach untwisted a little when she saw him a few hours later. They'd get through this together. Justin cared about her, and she felt safe with him. He dawned his most stunning smile that made him look like a young god.

"I was talking to Trevor about the SAT at practice, and how I bombed my first one. He said he'll help me if you sleep with him."

Struck into silence, Claire stared at her boyfriend, convinced she hadn't heard right.

"If I _what_?"

"Just once," he reassured her hurriedly. "It's the only thing he asked for."

"He's a senior," she pointed out flatly. His brows furrowed. In the corners of her vision, she could see people turning to look at them. Apparently that had come out much louder than she'd intended.

"You're the most beautiful girl in school. Why wouldn't he want to sleep with you?"

The world was tilting and she felt her reality fracturing. She couldn't breathe; or maybe she couldn't hear.

"Please, Claire? I really need this. My parents are expecting Ivy League, and for that I'll need to ace my SAT's. It's only one night. He's really good in bed, and he's liked you for months. Please, baby?"

Any rational retort she'd had died on her lips as the icy realization set in that he was dead serious.

"Are you _shitting_ me?!" Then she realized every pair of eyes was now fixed on them. And she had an idea, and raised her voice just enough so every one of them could hear. "You've fucking lost it. I am _not_ sleeping with Trevor."

"Claire, please?" He looked like a puppy begging for a treat. "It's the only way he'll help me, and I really, really need this. You know my parents don't have your family's kind of money."

"I'm not your whore, Justin. I'm not some _thing_ you can sell. Go find some other girl to pimp out for the grades you can't get yourself!"

Her heels clicked sharply on the tile as she whirled around and marched off without another word, spine straight, head high, because all those people were glued to her. It took several seconds for conversation to creep back in, and the hard, shocked silence pressed in on her. Her stomach twisted, and she couldn't tell if it was the hormones or the fact that her boyfriend had planned on pimping her out making her sick to her stomach. Or that Trevor had thought to ask Justin for her like he had a right to her body, like every boy did. In the back of her mind, she wondered how many other boys thought they had a right to her, to look at her, to use her. Who wouldn't want to fuck the most beautiful girl in school?

She was public property.

She'd never tell him. No one needed to know. Ever. She could only imagine what he'd call her if his fifteen-year-old girlfriend told him she'd gotten pregnant.

So she went to the clinic alone, without a word to anyone, trembling and terrified, but resolved. When her hands started to shake, she imagined her dad out in the waiting room. When she couldn't pretend to herself anymore that she wasn't scared, she pictured her dad standing next to her, holding her hand. When it was over, she curled up on her bed and cried in desperate relief.

She waited until after dinner, when her mother was still gone with her friends and the cramps had eased enough for her to walk downstairs without openly wincing.

"Daddy?"

"Claire."

He looked up from his desk, the smile on his lips faltering. His dark eyes crinkled at the edges, and she got that familiar sensation like her dad was staring into her head. He knew she'd been crying, understood that his daughter was heartbroken and furious.

"Am I interrupting?"

"I always have time for you. What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Justin." Then, "I feel stupid bothering you over a boy."

He stood and led her over to the couch by the window, kissed her forehead. She curled up against his side, her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist as he held her close. This had to be far more than a broken heart, even for a first love, but he knew better than to press her.

"What did he do, angel?"

"He-… It doesn't matter. He just, isn't the person I thought he was."

"Of course it matters. You deserve to be respected. To be with someone who understands you and appreciates how brilliant you are."

She knew he understood there was more, and the raw memories spun in her head like accusations of how stupid she'd been. This afternoon, all she wanted was for her dad to be at the clinic with her, to reassure her everything would be all right. Part of her desperately wanted to admit to him how afraid she'd been all week, how she'd felt like she'd swallowed glass. That this was far more grown up than she'd ever wanted to have to be at fifteen. But Claire couldn't bring herself to tell him. He wouldn't be angry; he'd just worry, more than he already did. Even though she was a young woman, she'd always be his baby girl, and he'd do anything for her to keep her safe. So she hadn't asked him to come with her, and she didn't tell him now.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to share a cigarette. But even on the day she'd had to get an abortion, she couldn't bring herself to disappoint her father by admitting that she'd adopted his biggest vice.

"Tell me about the new horses." Her voice sounded small and too-high to her own ears, edging on brittle.

Pressing another kiss to her forehead, he offered his daughter a sad but tender smile. His voice was low and comforting as it vibrated through his chest, and she cried quietly while he held her. She had never been so terrified. Or so humiliated. Her daddy couldn't fix everything, but Claire knew he would always be there for her, no matter what happened.

* * *

Hundreds of conversations filled the room with a persistent hum of overlapping words, accented by the clink of champaign glasses, or the tap of high heels. Behind her, Congressman Roslyn unsteadily gestured with his glass.

"Underwood's girl's got a nice set of tits. On the small side, but she's got a hell of a body. I know what I'd be doing with that every night if I were him."

Claire's spine stiffened, but she didn't betray her anger at the circle of men behind her. He'd been saying things about her and to her for most of the night, getting louder and more daring by the glass. Needing some quiet and solitude, she excused herself from the party to go find her husband. Without the background noise, she could hear another pair of footsteps lagging behind her in the empty hallway: the dull tap of flat shoes.

"Claire. Don't you look delicious tonight. Frank is a lucky man."

"Roslyn. Really, I expect better manners from you towards a lady. But thank you."

Alcohol had made him blunt and tactless. She gave him her best polite-but-not-interested smile. When his fingers sank into her ass, she almost yelped, and just managed to stop herself from shoving him hard against the opposite wall as she spun around. He wasn't the first man intent on sticking his hands where they weren't invited, but her heartbeat was still pounding in her throat. Dalton had changed her forever, and what she'd once written off as simple stupidity she now knew could portend something much more violent. When he stepped against her and put an arm around her waist, her heart throbbed heavily in her chest. His breath was hot and bitter across her skin.

"You be nice to me, and I'll make your husband's life a lot easier. I'll be an ally instead of an enemy."

He put a hand to her breast and squeezed experimentally. Snatching his wrist, Claire twisted his hand away firmly, her gray eyes narrowed in admonishment, but was careful to soften the physical rebuke with a smile.

"What would your wife think, Congressman?"

"What she doesn't know won't hurt me," he retorted breezily. "I just want a feel. Surely Frank won't begrudge me that."

The second his hand was off her breast, he slid it down to her thigh before he squeezed her ass again. Reaching back, she pried both his hands off her delicately. The hard kiss was sloppy and reeked of strong spirits. She pinned him with a look full of venom. There could be a fine line between rejection and retaliation, and she had to be careful how she got out of this. He took a single step back, then let his gaze rake from her shoes to her head.

"God, you look beautiful. I'd die to know how your skin feels…" She froze as she felt his hand find its way down her dress, under her bra. "I think you need to learn some manners, Claire." His voice was replete with sickening false sweetness and slurred with too much alcohol. She barely restrained herself from grabbing him by his sagging throat. "When a gentleman asks you for something, you give it kindly, with a smile."

His other hand slid up her thigh, inching higher and higher. This time, her hand shot out to wrap around his throat, but at the last second, shoved him away instead of chocking him. It burned that she couldn't really do anything to him: it was a felony to assault a member of Congress. Assaulting a Congressman's wife at a beltway party, however, was certainly tactless, but not worthy of any great distress. Inclining her head towards him, she smirked coldly, cruelly.

"I'd hate to think you talk to your mistress that way. And you've been together longer than most married couples in DC."

He tripped over his own shoes when he turned and hit the floor with a heavy thud, too drunk to do anything but stare at the wall spinning in circles and try to figure out why the building was moving so fast.

"Claire. There you are." Francis materialized around the corner, and she almost cried in relief. Straightening, she made her way over to her husband, out of ear shot of the presumptuous old man.

"We're not going to get Roslyn's vote," she conceded darkly.

"Why not?"

Claire didn't answer, just started walking, away from the inebriated Congressman, back towards the party and the noise, her heels too loud in the silent hall.

In the back of her heard, she despised herself for how afraid Roslyn had made her. He was infamous for feeling up the interns and every other woman on Capitol Hill, but he'd never gotten violent.

"Mrs. Roslyn? Francis found your husband. He's a little worse for wear, but he can sleep it off."

"Thank you, Claire. I swear, I look away for ten seconds and he's gone and gotten himself into more trouble." Claire only smiled, her public, debutant's smile, the one that betrayed nothing.

She sat silent and rigid on the ride home. Their detail had better grace than to comment. Tremors stole through her hands, her chest cold with lingering fear, and she wondered if she would ever live down that humiliation, even though there had been no audience.

Francis didn't touch her; he knew better. But god damn it, he wanted to saw off that bastard's cock and balls, then take a knife to his throat. _No one_ hurt Claire. _No one_. Nobody on this earth had a right to touch her - not even him.

"That man doesn't deserve to breathe."

Looking out the window, she let the hot, burning tears slide down her face, unable to hold them in any longer. She was mortified and livid, at Roslyn, at herself. For the rest of the way home, neither spoke. Claire thought of the boys with the scissors cutting up her dress, because they wanted to see what was underneath. Of her dad's friend Erik Nordin who had looked at her like he wanted to fuck the thirteen-year-old in the red dress, of Justin and Trevor, and every man after them who believed he had a right to do what he wanted with her body. That she owed them something because she existed.

The front door shook in its frame when Frank slammed it shut. He threw his tux jacket on the couch, needing to break something, preferably that bastard's face. Wiping tears from her cheeks, Claire forced her voice to stay even.

"Francis, let it go. I really don't want to talk about it."

"You looked _scared_ when I saw you."

"Because that's what happens when you get raped," she snapped. "It makes you hyper-vigilant, and I can't turn it off!" Running her fingers through her hair, she sighed. "Men have been looking at me the same way Roslyn does my entire life. It's never going to end." Frank's jaw clenched.

"I could arrange for him to take a nice long dive into the Potomac, or send his wife some of those sex masochistic tapes he made with his mistress-"

Without warning, Claire slammed him against the wall, her hands fisted in his shirt, her eyes livid.

"He's not _worth_ it," she bit out in a harsh whisper.

"He insulted you."

"He catcalled me," she responded flatly.

"You said he did a lot more than catcall you-"

"He humiliated me, yes. But that doesn't mean you can make it worse by going on a rampage."

"He's not getting away with this-"

"He will. Because he's a man. Because he's powerful. Because they always do. Because he already has."

"Claire-"

"Let it go, Francis. Or anything you do to hurt him will only end up hurting me."

At that, her husband fell silent. Outrage ebbed into disgust, disbelieving acquiescence.

"I'll make sure you're never alone with him again, Claire."

"It's not just him. Tomorrow it'll be someone else. It's never going to end."

Claire pulled away from him and withdrew well out of reach. She crossed her arms with her hands on her elbows, head bowed, and her back to him.

"You don't understand, Francis."

"Understand what?" he demanded. "What are you _talking_ about, Claire?" But it was rage making his voice sharp, not at her, but because on some level he already knew it was true. He saw it, the way it was almost blatant. When she turned to answer him, her gray eyes haunted, almost resigned. Her voice was flat, numb. Claire's words would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"Men like Roslyn think they own women, that they have a right to take whatever they want from us. Especially the beautiful ones. I'm public property, Francis."


End file.
